There was too much to do in my long-running quest but secret women’s organisations and the greedy scheming of the Global Elite doesn’t pay the bills. I was contacted by a local residents alliance, protesting against planned massive development of high-density housing on greenfield sites. The scale was staggering, destroying much of our countryside to create massive urban sprawl. Owners of an impacted estate agreed to fund my time to find out why local politicians refused to listen to their concerns.

A few days later I went with them to a mockingly called public consultation at the council’s head offices. Built for an eye-watering amount of local tax-payer’s money these were located on a high-security military air-base miles from the nearest settlement. Only authorised vehicles were allowed which excluded those of the public. With nowhere to park nearby and buses that did not run during the evenings, there had been accusations of blocking local democracy. A foot and cycle-path was hastily constructed but unlit and several miles from the nearest town. So it was that I had to park with the others an hour in advance for the walk there, remembering to bring a torch for the walk back. The ‘consultation’ was a farce with the media barred. I’m surprised they let me in as a few years ago when they were known as the most corrupt council in the land, I exposed several of them in a slave import business. At the meeting our town councillors didn’t even bother to turn up. The remainder who lived well away from the proposed developments acted like they were the great and the good knowing what was best for the common folk they were meant to represent. The head of the chamber lectured the public gallery as if we were naughty children who had no right to be there, warning us to keep quiet unless invited to speak or be forcible ejected by the Military Police. Despite a planned 30 minutes for the residents to make their case, they were only given 3 minutes during which they were rudely ignored by councillors and planning officers playing with mobile phones or laptops. A cry of outrage was met with mass violent eviction by the Military Police and destruction of phones used to film the event. Outside, I met up with the local media who were outraged and vowed to report this. The next morning I took a call from a BBC reporter regretfully informing me that the ‘powers that be’ had killed the story. A similar tale came from the local papers.

Determined not to let this drop, I phoned the local councillors to ask them why they could not be bothered to turn up to represent our interests. Those who didn’t put the phone down told me to make an appointment with their office which went straight to voicemail with no return call. I decided to pay a personal visit to the head of the chamber. Councillor Bill Jakes lived in a large mansion in a small rural village where normal people couldn’t afford to buy a house let alone rural workers. Councillors volunteer their time with expenses paid, however there have been long-running scandals over expense claims and being paid handsomely to use their positions of power for the benefit of big business. Unsurprisingly the village was untouched by the monstrous plans. Large ornate railings and an automated gate surrounded the property, but a departing delivery van gave me enough time to duck inside.

Alarm bells rang in my head when the front door was opened by a scrawny old Indian woman dressed in rags who spoke little English. She made a feeble attempt to stop me entering but couldn’t stop me. I entered the waiting room while she went off in a huff to find her master. He soon appeared, an elderly arrogant puffed up, self-important blustering expensively dressed man. “How dare you enter my house uninvited. Get out right now” he demanded. “I will when you’ve explained why you have no time for the public you are elected to represent” I replied. “Leave now, I’ve more important things to do than talk with plebs” “Like playing golf” I said spotting the golf bag in the hall “Is that the one still funded by the taxpayer from which the general public are excluded”. He went red in the face. “You are an elected public servant. You should be sorting out our concerns instead of playing golf with rich business men or are they developers”. I could see in his expression that I had hit a truth. “How dare you!” he bellowed “this country is not a democracy, you moron. It is an autocracy. We are your overlords and masters. The sooner you lowlife understand that the better. Why do you think the same people keep getting re-elected time after time regardless of whatever dirt is dug up on them? Because it’s a farce and you little people have no control”. He turned to leave, but paused to give me another blast. “Trouble makers like you make me sick. Now get out before I set my daughter on you” he shouted then stormed off.

I needed evidence to tie him with the developers so tried a few doors until I found a study containing an expensive mahogany desk and filing cabinets. After a few minutes, in a drawer I found a folder containing development plans. Inside is a map showing the proposed development except it is much more densely populated and extensive than those for public consultation. Then I discover that the map folded out to reveal proposed developments for the adjoining counties and am shocked to see an enormous wide swath of developments in an arc from Oxford to Cambridge. Barely a patch of green exists and where there is there are notes saying these are non-viable or non-profitable. I get out my phone and take photographs. Turning the page I find notes and take pictures of those too. A few phrases catch my eye and I’m horrified. It is planned for an initial 5 million new high-density homes with agreements to buy from large foreign investors to be rented back at lucrative rates to a low paid low skilled workforce employed by large distribution warehouses on zero hour contracts and built on a huge private motorway network for lorries, creating a ‘string-super-city’. A ring of private transport bus-lanes will be created for the workers while private cars will be heavily tolled generating additional revenue. Investors, developers, local and central government, and councils were signatories to the plan. Exposing this would send shock-waves through many communities so I took more photos and mailed them to local reporters I trusted.

I was about to leave the room when I noticed an ancient-looking framed scroll hanging on the wall. Faded and written in old English it was hard to read. “The decree signed by King Henry VIII exempting the Covenant of the Holy Messiah from the Dissolution of the Monasteries in 1536” a strong female voice said from the doorway. I guessed that this was the daughter. Given the Councillor’s age, I was expecting someone in her thirties or forties and therefore surprised by a teenaged girl entering the room. Maybe I shouldn’t have been, guys like him seem to attract younger women.

The bigger surprise was the para-military uniform, the round metal badge on a blue-grey beret indicating the Air Training Corps. Standing around 5 foot 4 with her back ramrod straight she had a small slim oval face with small narrow eyes with brown irises that glared at me with hawk-like intensity beneath slender brown eyebrows and above a sleek long nose with flat plains of her cheeks either side. A small firm-set thin-lipped mouth sat over a shallow dimpled chin. Youthful looking with good complexion, a stern appearance was enhanced by brown hair worn high off the forehead and swept back well clear of the ears and secured at the back of the head in a neat bun. A long slender body tapered to a slim waist then out to nice hips covered by a thick tough-wearing woollen blue-grey jumper featuring nylon shoulder epaulettes, shoulder pads, elbow pads with a pen pocket on the left arm and a large grey brassard on the right bearing various insignia. The thickness couldn’t hide shapely swellings on her chest suggesting that she was quite stacked. Above a high rounded neck there was a glimpse of a wedgewood-blue shirt and black tie. The jumper was long, coming down well past her hips below which a functional knee-length blue-grey skirt hung with a box pleat at the front. With knees on show, her lower legs were relatively long and slim with a nice shape provided by her calves and sheathed in barely-black sheer nylon. On her feet were rather boyish black lace-up work shoes polished to a high shine.

There is something about a woman in uniform. Smart, disciplined and authoritative, with the militaristic ones suggesting combat skills that could kill a man, but that’s probably just my warped mind. “It’s from the Council vaults. Dad found it and brought it here as his bonus one year. It’s worth a bucket load” she added. I noticed other pieces of art around the room, no doubt valuable public assets to which he had been helping himself.

“Killer Nuns” I said. “What?” “They silence anyone who finds artefacts that contradict their beliefs” I nodded to the scroll. “They are still very much active and interfering in a case of mine. What does your father know about them? Why did the King leave them alone when he smashed the rest of the church?” I asked. “Who knows? Who cares? What I want to know is why are you snooping around his office?” she fixed me with a surprisingly tough stare for one so young. With her hair swept away neatly under the beret and mouth tight set, the uniform added an air of authority despite her age. “I was leaving when that scroll caught my interest”. The cold unwavering look in her eyes told me that she didn’t believe me. “Thank your father for his time” I said and began to head towards the door. She moved to block my way so suddenly, I instinctively put out a hand to stop bumping into her. To my horror it sank into the front of the woollen jumper at her breast. “I’m so sorry” I gasped “It was an accident”.

Before I could remove it, she grabbed the index and middle finger and bent them right back. “Argh arghh!” I was yelping with my knees bending before the girl. She glared at me impassively with an amused smirk. “My name is Melissa; but the boys round here call me Mistress” with that she darted behind me whipping my right arm up behind my back in a painful hammerlock. “Hey! Cut it out!” I yelped. She just laughed and pressed my hand up between my shoulder-blades then proceeded to march me out of the room. “Don’t mess with me. You’ll only get hurt old man” she sneered, forcing me down the hall. “Argh, stop it, you’re breaking my arm” I squealed, squirming in the girl’s grip. “I will if you don’t stop whining like a bratty boy” she replied in a voice that showed the relish at subduing a much larger and older man. I tried to kick back at her legs hoping to get her to drop her hold. “Arghh!” a shoe rose between my legs from behind clubbing my balls in a swift upwards kick that left me wincing in agony. “Try that again and I’ll take great pleasure in breaking your balls” she warned in a hard voice “I’m very good at it. Just ask the last reporter who came snooping around here”. In too much pain to stop her, the slim uniformed teen frog-marched me down the hall.

Instead of heading towards the front door, she forced me around a corner into another wing of the house. “Let go or you’re in trouble” I threatened, trying to twist and turn from her hold. In response she pressed herself against my back. “Argh no no no!” a nylon-clad knee forced it’s way between my legs from behind to jack-hammer 5 strong upward blows, pounding my balls at close-range. I was jerking into the air by the force of each blow causing me double pain as this strained the armlock. “Oooh oooh!” she mocked as I groaned in pain, unable to crease over my aching balls due to the agonising sharp stabs in my trapped arm. “What did you say?” she laughed “Come on. Say that again, old man”. “No? Then move your arse before I break your arm and kick your balls to pulp” she ordered in a tough tone. I had no choice, my balls ached too much.

Driving me towards the end of a wide luxurious corridor lined with more expensive artwork no doubt courtesy of the taxpayer, we entered a door at the end into an empty room with large rubber gym mats on the floor. “Still think I’m the one in trouble, old man?” Melissa sneered then delivered a swift sharp stomp of her foot to the back of my right knee. Yelping, my leg folded to the floor as her shoe pressed forward and down against the inside of my knee. “What’s wrong, is a teenaged girl hurting you?” she laughed forcing my hand so far up between my shoulder-blades that the side of my face was pressed against the floor. This couldn’t be happening! The more I struggled the more she exerted pressure on my arm which was now a useless appendage. “Stop! Please you’ll break my arm” I pleaded. “As if I give a toss” she jeered. She was only a teenager and a slim one at that which made being face-down at her feet all the more demeaning. Her bodyweight fell upon my back flattening me under her. “How does it feel old guy, being humbled by a girl young enough to be your daughter?”. Very humiliating. Momentarily releasing my wrist, my relief was short-lived as she immediately hooked an arm beneath each armpit, closing her forearms around my biceps before locking off with her hands pressing on the back of my neck. “Oh dear. What happened there?” she mocked restraining me in a full nelson. My arms fluttered wildly but uselessly, unable to reach her. Sitting on the small of my back she leant forward driving my face back against the mats. Her hot breath upon my ear, intimate and disturbing. “Come on old man! Not tired already, are you?” she jeered sending unwanted tingles along my spine. I’d been outclassed in the past by women skilled in unarmed combat but being held down by a teenaged girl a fraction of my size had to be the most humiliating. Even worse was that she didn’t look like a tomboy or chav but actually not that bad looking. Laying along the length of my back keeping my arms spread out behind me like chicken-wings, it was machismo-destroying to feel how light she was. I thought I would be able to shift her by bucking my body but she maintained total control forcing me to rear back from the floor before slamming it back down against the mats. She repeated that several times before forcing me to agree to keep still.

After an embarrassingly long time while Melissa let me bathe in humiliation, she let go of my arms then got off my back to stand up. Wearily I began to rise, my eyes locking onto the plain functional lace-up shoes and drawn up along the nylon-clad slender shins with nice curves to the back of her calves. I hadn’t even straightened my knees when she grabbed the back of my hair and pulled me close, a well-developed bust leapt towards me. I averted my gaze to see her staring right back at me which she held for several long uncomfortable seconds. “Do you like a woman in uniform?” she asked. I didn’t answer. “I bet you do” she chuckled “I bet you like dress uniforms, the ones with skirts and black hose or stockings”. Again I refused to answer. “Yes. I can see by your reaction that you do” she said with a subtle smile. “I bet you like young girls in uniform” she stated. “I’m not playing this game” I replied. “I think you like it when a uniformed girl kicks your arse”. Again I kept quiet. “What about Girl Guides? Brownies? The kid next door is in the Brownies, they learn self-defence to protect themselves from weirdos like you. Shall I call her? I bet you’d enjoy a tiny girl in a short brown uniform, bare legs and socks high-kicking and chopping you to a whimpering mess” “I’m not a paedo” I stated hotly. I wasn’t in the mood to take it from a young teen playing tough and wanted to teach her some respect. I rushed her and she spread her legs, stretching the skirt taut between her thighs, as she squared up to resist me. “Careful. You need to take it easy at your age” she teased as I struggled against her, surprised to find myself standing and grappling with the uniformed teen and making little headway. The feel of her lithe slender body beneath the thick woollen utilitarian jumper moving in my arms as I tried to hold onto her was disconcerting.